


break up to make up

by savaged



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Hotel Hook-Ups, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2040579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savaged/pseuds/savaged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the numerous and aggressive insults to provoke on camera, the classic match turns into a fire pit for both players from Argentina and Portugal when one of them tackles the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	break up to make up

 

_'And there he goes with DANCING feet!'_

 

Leo runs.

The wind slaps his face, plays with his hair and tugs his shirt, but he doesn't stop. No. He keeps pace with it and outruns one, two, even three players of the opposite team dancing with the ball at his feet, at his mercy, on his way to the holy chance of scoring for his national team.

The grass turns to ice and the stadium's suddenly at the edge of screaming a goal. The goalkeeper tenses with thighs flexed and facing the side of the obvious kick; the Argentine players making faces of expectation and their heartbeats racing like the impulse of the Flea, the team's little captain, the scorer, the ticket to glory; the winner, until a scarlet blurry mud approaches at all speed, stealing his momentum. A pause. Leo sees it by the corner of his eye and before he can make up his next though, he's facing the dirt with blood up to his nose and someone speaking clearly with a strong portuguese accent. "You're mine now."

The referee whistles high enough for a couple of players to cover their ears and Cris pushes down Leo a little, chuckling into his ear. His knee digs Lionel's ribs.

They're opposite poles. Cris' tall, broad, tanned, a righteous fashionista. He opens to people with a charming and magical smile, showing all of his teeth and gums, wrinkles around shinning eyes; and Leo's more of the quiet, focused, shy type.

He's short, he's small, he's fast, he says only the words he needs to say and acts in the right moment, fueled by the passion he has for football running through his veins. He speaks through actions rather than words and gets thrown down to the floor by the whole team whenever he scores, everyone hugging him with affection, admiring his talent. Cris hates him. And Leo can't stand Cris.

He can't even _understand_ him, to begin with. He rolls his eyes over the built body of the portuguese in the scarlet kit once they stand up -fuck, he's tall-, trying to find a switch to turn him off, but Ronaldo's words keep coming out like a cascade of nonsense of that foreign, comely mouth when the referee pulls out a red card. Add portuguese swearing to a mad crowd of argentines cursing Ronaldo's name, and you have both players blushing in anger against each other, ready to attack.

 _'It looks like Argentina's gonna do a free kick'_ the radio announces. Kids cross their fingers in the tribune, adults stand up. The coach's at the verge of a crisis having to do with nerves and no one in the team listening to him. Ronaldo cocks his head, pushing one of his cheeks by the inside with his tongue.

The walls of white and blue mess up Lionel's perception as he looks at the barrier of people and the goalkeeper standing ten meters away. He puts his hands on his hips and then looks down at the ball, swallowing the iron-like taste of blood coming out of his open bottom lip because of Ronaldo's fault. He has that name in the tip of his tongue, and blood doesn't look good on camera. Cristiano would be freaking everybody out about it, but Leo just wipes it away instead and focuses.

Ronaldo's hitched breathing appears behind him like the raspy pants of a hungry predator, speaking between gritted teeth sending shivers down his spine and a hand on his lower back; "you owe me a red card, Leo."

Messi tries to project the shot, ignoring him.

"C'mon," the pressure grows constant and reaches peaks of irritation. Lionel sighs heavily and looks back, finally, to encounter Ronaldo's frown and childish purse, default puppy eyes. Messi stares at him. His lips are bloody an bitten from the tackle he had to take; "want me to forgive you, Cris?"

The rude tone he used sent an alarm ringing, and so Cristiano backs off startled, raising one eyebrow. "You? Forgive me for what? If you rolled around on your own it's your fault, it wasn't my intention to make you fall."

"'Cause that's what I'm gonna do right now, forgive you." Cristiano gasps. He seems oblivious to how he threw himself into the floor, believing his own lie. "It's okay" Messi reassures and fastens himself to kick the ball at full speed. Not until it hits the net he turns around with a giant smile. "Thanks for that fall. Worth a shot," then Lionel disappears from his sight as the rest of the team jumps on top of him forming a giant ball of cheerful, happy people.

'You are' Cris thinks to himself raising a brow, and then walks away, pretending to forget about it. 'Little cunt.'

-

They celebrate victory in the locker rooms and Leo feels a little bruised from all the hugging, exhausted and wanting to just leave to the hotel and get some rest. But there's still the press waiting for them, and as they cheeringly discuss one of the journalists raises a hand pointing to Lionel. He nods, conscious of the trouble he'd have if he fucked up his speech.

"After the numerous provocations made by Cristiano on camera," the young man asks, "what does it feel to win against the Portuguese team?"

It's a burden to be constantly under the glare of millions of people, having to be careful with what he'll say at any hour to these blood-suckers. Also there's this one person watching the interview that he surprisingly finds himself caring for. He scratches the back of his neck, looks to his left searching for Mascherano's expression. Nothing. He's blank. Lionel simply answers "great. It's always good to score, my lip still hurts" and shrugs it off.

On the other end of the line, in front of a TV, the whole nation of Portugal heavily sighs. It feels like the cold-blooded bastard doesn't even care, and the weigh of a defeated republic crushes Cris down.

The man sits on the edge of the long couch of a hotel room, bare feet and naked from the shower, hair still wet, recently combed with the alcohol-free gel he bought in his way to the hotel. His thoughts are tangled and stumbling across, steaming his mind like the hot water steamed up the mirror of the bathroom moments ago.

He walks to the panoramic window to the cloudless city's skyline lighting up in front of his bright eyes, and steps out wrapped in a towel, holding the railing with both arms.

He lifts himself on the ball of his feet, letting the air in his lungs drift away all of a sudden, getting rid of all the words unsaid that same evening. One thing he can't resist is thinking it all over; how he failed to assist, to score. He had been taught to fight fair being the youngest of many brothers and sisters but the circumstances told him to do otherwise, and that evening in the match he showed no less than his lack of output during the season. He curses under his breath. If one of his teammates were near him he'd be ashamed to be heard.

There's not much he thinks about when someone finally knocks on the door. Cristiano isn't in the mood to put some clothes on, or to draw a smile on, so he walks aimlessly back inside and tightens the knot of the towel hanging from his hips with no effort, showing the beginning of a light trail of hairs before the cloth, and simply opens a bit to peek outside. He huffs in disbelief.

"What are you doing here?"

Leo holds the door open with his hand; "wait, I wasn't sure if..."

"Are you gonna come in or do you want to talk to me naked in the corridor?"

Lionel half-smiles listening to the portuguese'd english of his rival. It's an uncensored, honest version of Cristiano's speech. Or maybe it's just Cristiano's neutral tone. However, he realizes they aren't teasing each other anymore. One thing's talking to him through ciphered messages for the press on TV, and the other's to have him face-to-face in real life. In a towel. He shifts weight from one leg to the other, trying not to go red this time.

"I came to-"

"Apologize?"

"No" Leo clears his throat. Cristiano almost yells at him, and they aren't inside yet.

"Why did you come here then?"

"To ask if everything's alright. I don't know."

Silence solidifies around them. Cris looks indignant. The tall guy catches in sight Messi's lip, the deep cut that looks like he has gotten a piercing torn from his skin, and then finds himself thinking about this guy's lip, and shakes his head 'no' various times. It's just the surrealism of it all. He leaves the door completely open, his body occupying the most of the space left for Leo to enter. "Come in."

"Thanks" the shorter guy sighs in relief looking everywhere. The room doesn't change much from the different hotels around town. It's average; a TV flat screen, a queen sized bed, one bathroom. Leo admires the view as he gazes past it, but doesn't dwell on his surroundings too much before going near the couch, unsure of what to do next.

As Cris folds his arms, still in the towel, he waits for the drop of Messi's next words.

"I can wait for you to change" he says shyly.

"I'm ok."

"Oh. Well... Um, how are you handling it?"

"How am I handling what?"

Leo rolls his eyes, taking a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. At this point it feels like talking to a big wall of muscle, and he isn't getting any fun from it. "The team."

"Good, thanks. We lost today, thanks to you."

Lionel tries to explain it's just his job when Ronaldo hushes him with a finger and finally snaps, furrowing his brow. "It's your job to pretend I'm a bad person and throw you down, too?"

"But _you did_! You're arrogant, you talk shit everywhere about-"

"D'you really want to feel how it's like to get thrown by me, Leo?"

"I was just-" little he can try to justify before Cris tackles him, pushing both against the wall and then down onto the floor so they're heading towards the closed door. They look like animals attacking each other, like playing dogs, or even teenagers over-run by hormones getting in a high school fight.

Cristiano has had much of the last ones. It's one of the main reasons he had to leave school and focus on football in the first place; he leaves Leo breathless against the floor, and unlikely on the field, this time the energy he uses is to wrap his arms around Leo and jail him, which makes the guy literally pant with hair on his face and his cellphone far from reach.

"Shit," Cristiano laughs taking Lionel's wrists and forcing his hands to stay still. He perceives through the wrinkled shirt the way his lungs rise and drop in a fast pace causing a high-pitched breathing, and a fast beating heart, assimilating the one of a bird that's just been shot down but hasn't died yet. Lionel's trying hard not to freak out under Cristiano.

The portuguese takes a comfortable sit on the waist of his number one rival, and the towel around his hips goes up and down, wrinkling and softly untying as he moves. "Loosen up, come on" Cris paints a million dollar smile across his face. Leo's not scared, no. He's mad at how unprofessional and reckless this guy can be. He wants to get out. "I'm not gonna do anything bad to you."

"Let me go" Lionel swerves, but he's caught. There's waves of blood draining from his brain traveling down his body, and he isn't very fond of it in this situation. He shifts and shakes, only making it worse as Ronaldo notices he's trying to escape and approaches the neck of the outrageous winner.

"You're all cheaters" he speaks loosely around him. "Wait," Cristiano's dangerously close now. Lionel realizes there's more than a struggle going on there, they're more than close for his likings, and grunts. He has no idea what's the other man up to, until Cris questions "what's that fragrance?" and Leo raises one brow.

"Um... Dolce and Gabbana, I think" he sees Cris smiling like a fucking idiot and is immediately infected by it. "What?"

"I need to buy that one." They smile. They aren't in the usual position when smiling, but they do. "How much did it cost?"

"Uh..." Lionel hesitates. "I don't think you could afford it."

Cristiano smirks, freeing Messi's hands just so he can tickle him. They laugh together like childhood friends, "you're not really honest, anyway. Tell me it."

"No, sorry, I don't brag in front of the poor-" Cristiano pinches his nipple, "aye! What the heck, _boludo_..." they crack up, relaxing around each other. Cristiano falls forwards not being able to hold Lionel anymore, but Leo stays still, feeling the smile of Ronaldo and his face now buried in his neck. He feels the slow, warm, tranquilizing breath. The gelled, kind of messy hair enters in touch with his skin and teeth just down below his ear give him a damp nibble. "Hey" Leo winces.

Cristiano stops to make their eyes meet. "Yeah?"

"Just..." Leo swallows with dry throat and a different handful of thoughts falling through his consciousness, feeling the weight of his rival increase heavily upon his lower body. "Nothing." He's now very aware of everything around him, the visible shiver of his arms over his head, though Cristiano's eyes block any other view.

"Are you sure?"

Leo opens his mouth in half. There are no words coming from it, they die in the back of his throat. He doesn't know how he's gonna look him in the eye in any other match after this. His eyelids fall heavy when Cris closes the gap left between their faces, and their mouths collide in the weirdest kiss he's had this week, coming from the person we're talking about. Leo feels the pain of the abrasions and cuts in his lip turn to warm, delicate touch, and as Cristiano swings on top of him he unbuckles the belt of Messi's pants with one hand, getting his fingers under the expensive underwear.

" _Olha_ , I really hoped they were CR7."

"I'd kill myself before that" is the only thing Lionel can vowel before Cris shuts him up devouring his mouth. He tastes like strawberries and mint, -maybe _he is_ into dudes after all,- and quickly pulls Leo's jeans and underwear down to his knees, leaving his thick thighs and boner exposed. A trail of thin dark hairs riffles down his navel ending across his inner thighs.

There's a silent moment full of avoidance between them when Cris straightens his back and gets their dicks into his hand to stroke them together. He has removed the towel in no time, and Leo feels overwhelmed at the direct contact and shudders, searching for a place to look at -anywhere, he tells himself- and his eyes must look really fucking confused because Cristiano says "just close your eyes," with a smile, and rides him wave after wave of pleasure, sitting on top of him, swaying. It'd be just a bummer to lose such sight, so Leo decides to disobey and stare at the portuguese biting hard at his bottom lip, grabbing Cris by the waist to get steady. The thumb of his big hand caresses and teases the head of his cock, getting pre-cum smeared over them both, and Leo feels small and humiliated when his voice breaks in the middle of a moan.

Cristiano positions himself between Leo's legs and puts his head down, holding himself with an arm, wraps his lips around Leo's dick in an o-shape and sucks him slowly, until his lips meet the base of his shaft. A hiss echoes across the room as, with one hand, Cris jerks him off and helps it with the teasing licks of his tongue, humming and kissing him everywhere, knowing this is how it ends. Lionel's also quick in this, after all.

"Cristiano... Oh god, faster" he makes it sound like an order when grunted.

"What? Say it again."

"Faster" Leo repeats, breathless. "Please."

Cris smiles, slowing it down so much he's almost stopped.

"You f-" Lionel tenses up again when a hand squeezes his butt cheek. "You like to see me lose focus, no?"

"I like to see you lose, period" Cristiano takes care of his own arousal, rubbing Messi's hard-on now but teasing his entrance with two fingers. Careful, reading Lionel's expressions he pushes in and the short man gasps cursing in argentine, losing track of the time and space. "Hush" Cristiano calms him down -if you call that to 'calm' someone-, and smiles fond of the scared, insecure little gestures Leo shows. "I promise it'll be good," he assures, running a hand through his cheek. Leo just whines, grabbing a chunk of gelled messy hair and pulling.

Cristiano's magical fingers work up through the tight space to this one spot in Leo's body that makes him see everything upside down, makes him forget he's a professional football player; that he's practically cheating with Portugal. He feels like coming, and yet he doesn't but he moans like he has, pushing and pulling Ronaldo to repeat that motion. "Here?" the man raises his eyebrow in question, Leo nods. His cheeks are red, eyelids heavy and temples covered by a sheen layer of sweat.

Cris orders "turn over," and Lionel does and kneels, giving Cristiano his back, abandoning reason. It has all come to this, a hard bitting of the hurt lips while he senses the hands running down and up his back, his shoulders tensing. "And I actually want to see you come" Cristiano admits. Messi stares back at him from over his shoulder.

"Are you serious?"

"Dead serious" Cristiano wraps Leo in his arms to pull him closer and shifts him up a bit, attacking the hollow part of the pale neck. He knows he's leaving a dark spot there for the rest of the weekend and looses focus and steadiness in the task he's carrying, letting go of Messi and making him fall into his lap too quickly. The guy bounces a little and whimpers and Cristiano thinks it's the cutest thing he has witnessed in the whole week -make that a month,- and smiles instead of saying a simple 'sorry'. It feels so goddamn good to have Lionel clenching and sweating, so tight and upright shy, that he can't handle it and feels he's gonna come soon if he doesn't relax.

They fuck at a slow rhythm, fastening until the only sound they hear apart from the moans and sighs of each other is the slam of skin against skin. It has the sweetest sound of the night for both of them; the curves of their bodies moving in harmony, the coordinated sway of their hips. Cristiano soon realizes that this is the only way they get to understand each other, arriving to that chaotic early state of bliss in which he grabs Leo by the hair and pulls him against his broad chest and says "'m coming" kissing him slowly, naked and moaning 'Leo' over and over again.

Leo doesn't know what to answer. He nods, and kind of pushes his head back into Ronaldo's shoulder and bits hard at his bleeding lip to stop himself from yelling his name. It's not how he rolls his hips back that makes Cris roll his eyes, nor the magnificent gift of good timing they have both in the field and in sex, apparently, but the sudden need of each other when they hit the exact point where they climax, and let go of anything they were clinging to, closing their eyes and breathing out built up tension around them.

Leo comes into Cris' hand and Cris into Leo's boxers -a quick draw-, for instance. Lionel lies on the floor, shirt and pants still on but wrinkled and out of some places, and Cristiano rolls and stays beside him, catching the towel with his foot and bringing it over to clean themselves. He feels exhausted -mentally, too, and for a moment of mind enlightenment he realizes what he has just done, looking to his side and finding Lionel's relaxed face.

"You will stay, right? You're my guest."

Leo makes a great effort to speak clearly, "not if you keep throwing me to the floor like this."

"I can't handle it" Cris shakes his head smiling and walks down Lionel's thigh with his index and middle finger. "Have you ever done this with a friend of your team?"

Being tired and hurt as he is, he's been swallowing blood from his lip for the last ten minutes, trying not to get it spilled onto the floor. He sits up pulling up his pants after cleaning himself with the towel. Cristiano watches.

"Did I bite too hard?" Cris takes his fingers to Leo's cheek. He's distracted, doesn't answer. There are bruises like blue roses across his shoulder and neck, and Cristiano feels freaking ashamed before Leo turns his hand away and stands.

"Aaaaaw, Leo!" Cris pulls from the string of his shoes but it doesn't stop the man now heading towards the door with an unwritten smirk on his face.

"It's gonna be a long night of celebrating victory, y'know." Not even a kiss goodbye; just a dirty towel and a man down. "I would buy me one of those Dolce and Gabbana if I was you. My birthday's coming up soon."

Cris huffs. There's not a single thing in the world that would stop him from doing that, except the worded idea coming from Lionel's own broken mouth.

"It was supposed to be a surprise" he mutters before the door closes, folding his arms.

  
+

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in the Football RPF fandom. Please feel free to leave a review! :)
> 
> Thanks for reading you guys<3


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